by KJ Charles
“Christ,” Martin gasped into his mouth, and thrust against him in a way that made everything between ribs and knees ache in anticipation. Theo thrust back, mimicking the motion, and then they were rutting against each other, with Theo’s nightshirt rumpled and tangled between them, his bare prick between Martin’s clothed thighs.
“You need those breeches off,” Theo told him. “And then you need to do something with that cockstand, or I’ll do it for you.”
Martin had to roll off the bed to get himself stripped, while Theo discarded his nightshirt. He expected Martin to pounce back on him, but he didn’t. He stood bare by the side of the bed, looking down, and Theo looked up at his corded thighs and broad, almost hairless chest with a sudden lump in his throat for his own pallid insignificance.
No wonder Martin hadn’t leapt at the opportunity to have a stoop-shouldered narrow-chested inky-fingered grubbing wordsmith in his bed. If Theo had a body like that, he’d spend all day admiring himself in the looking glass. And he’d make damned sure he partnered it with the kind of body he deserved.
Well, he might not have that body, but he had a mouth, and the skills to use it. He sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and reached out to the prick so conveniently close to his lips.
Martin made a strangled sound. Theo studied the view: the interplay of muscle, sinew, and bone, curls of black hair, a stand made to be relished. It was a little darker than the rest of him; flushed with blood, Theo supposed. He splayed his hands over Martin’s thighs, skin to skin, leaned forward, and took him in his mouth.
Martin’s hands closed gently on Theo’s shoulders. Theo wanted less of the gentleness. He gave it just a moment, working his tongue round the smooth skin and firm flesh, accustoming himself to Martin’s smell and taste and feel, and then he busied himself. Sliding his lips down, opening his throat, taking Martin deep in a long, smooth movement that filled his mouth and senses, and had Martin’s fingers digging into his shoulders. He did it again, and again, faster, first pleasuring and then fucking him with his mouth, sliding his hands between Martin’s legs and then up and down the crease of his firm arse until finally the man seemed to grasp the delicate hint he was offering.
“Theo.” Hands pushing against his shoulders. He pulled back, letting the saliva-wet prick rest in his open mouth. He knew just how provocative that looked, and he saw the tremor as Martin registered it. “Dear God. Get on the bed.”
Theo sprawled back, grasping one of Martin’s hands as he went and tugging, so that Martin ended up over him once again. He dipped down to take Theo’s mouth—he would taste himself there—and as he did it his hand closed on Theo’s stand. Theo thrust up into the grip, opened his mouth to the plundering, and clawed his need into Martin’s broad, smooth back.
“You,” Martin gasped. “Hell’s teeth. Theo. I want . . .”
“Then take it, blast you.” Theo lunged upward to get his mouth to Martin’s neck, propping himself with an awkwardly angled hand.
“Oil. Or grease.”
Theo didn’t have any such thing with him, and the thought of nipping downstairs to beg a pat of butter from the kitchen was not in the least appealing. Perhaps they might think nothing of such an odd request, but he had no intention of rousing suspicion. A country gaol cell would be the least of their troubles if they were caught.
“I’ve none. Come here and I’ll wet it for you.”
“I’m not doing this with spit,” Martin said flatly. “Damned if I’m listening to you bitch about your arse all tomorrow as well.”
“Oh, get on, will you? I’ve done worse.”
Martin let go his cock and shoved him down onto the bed, making Theo gasp with the sudden movement. Hand heavy on his shoulder, prick rubbing gently against his. He whimpered.
“You are not going to share a bed with me and walk away saying, ‘I’ve done worse.’” Martin’s voice was slightly ragged, and his eyes were fixed on Theo’s with disturbing intensity. “That is not how I fuck.”
Theo would wager it wasn’t, and the thought made him all the more urgent to find out firsthand. “I don’t mind. If you go gently— Mph.” That was Martin’s mouth, cutting him off, his hand closing around both lengths. Theo attempted to make a noise of objection, but it came out sounding embarrassingly like capitulation.
Martin sat up after a little, right up, planting his hands on Theo’s shoulders and looking down. “I want to give you something to complain about tomorrow,” he said, somewhat hoarsely. “Believe me. But, uh, I’ve experience of this—”
“You think I don’t?”
“Of it not going well,” Martin said. “I use oil.”
It didn’t sound as though he would negotiate. Theo gave a snarl of frustration. “I should have packed something. I bloody knew I should.”
“Oh, did you?”
Theo hooked a hand round Martin’s prick. “Be honest. This has been waiting for me for days. Begging, probably.”
“I am going to stop that mouth for you,” Martin said, and moved forward with intent. Theo slid down the bed to assist, and then Martin was in his mouth again, and this time Martin was leading. He drove down, steady but not gentle now, fucking into Theo’s mouth, filling his throat. Theo sucked him in a frenzy of need, writhing under him, desperate for it all now. Martin’s spend, his desire, the proof that Theo was wanted even just for half an hour.
“Christ, I’m going to—” Martin tried to pull back, just a little; Theo dug his fingers into Martin’s arse and urged him down, his toes curling into the bedclothes with tension as the other man stiffened, reached his peak, and spent hard, right down Theo’s throat.
They were still for a moment, Martin with head bowed, breathing hard; Theo relishing the sharp-sweet taste of him before he slowly, deliberately swallowed and set about licking Martin’s piece clean.
“Dear God.” Martin’s voice rasped. “If I’d thought . . . I did think.”
Theo had to wriggle up a bit to get his mouth free. “What did you think?”
Martin looked at him, as if weighing something up. “I hope I don’t offend you if I say, I thought you’d fuck like a tomcat.”
“You don’t offend me,” Theo said. “Not to speak of.”
“No, I don’t think I do.” Martin’s hand moved back, closing on Theo’s rigid stand. “Dear heaven, I want to know what you’ll be like with my prick in you. What you’ll feel like, what you’ll look like. You’re the kind who can’t stop moving, aren’t you?”
Theo’s breath was coming short. “You could find out. You could fuck me now—”
“After that? Believe me, I could not, for a while yet,” Martin said, with a fleeting grin. “But . . .” He shifted down the bed, then took hold of Theo’s stand again and began to work it, sliding his thumb over the wet, slippery head in a way that made Theo’s toes curl. “Is that just from having me in your mouth?”
“What else d’you think I’ve been doing?”
“You don’t give an inch, do you?”
“I just took at least eight,” Theo pointed out.
“And loved it.” Martin’s hand was moving faster. “And wanted more. Wanton little piece, aren’t you?”
Theo groaned agreement, hips jerking, watching Martin watching him. He did want more, but Martin’s other hand was stroking and teasing now, pushing his legs apart and roaming between as if . . .
As if he wanted to know Theo. As if he wanted his pleasure. As if he cared, because the intent, careful, almost joyful expression on his face was that of a man who cared.
Theo bit down hard on his own lip and shut his eyes so that he didn’t have to see.
The next day, Martin had a headache.
That wasn’t surprising; they’d fucked far too late into the night. It was Theo’s fault for being so damned . . . whatever it was that he was; Martin wasn’t even sure. He only knew that he hadn’t wanted to disentangle himself from that sinewy, twisty body, and by the time he’d been ready to move, Theo had been ready for another bout,
and it would have been rude to decline. He’d ended up driving between Theo’s tight-clamped thighs, with his companion whispering the most obscene encouragement in his ears, and spending all over him. Theo had wiped it up with a hand and deliberately licked the seed from his ink-blackened fingers. It was a sight Martin thought he’d probably take to his grave.
So they’d heard the chimes at midnight, and been roused by a resentful-looking chambermaid at half past four, and Martin’s head was throbbing even after a cup of strong coffee. Theo looked in similar plight, skin somewhat greyish, attempting to find a position in which he might doze without falling off the seat of the chaise. Martin wished him luck with that.
What was it about him?
Proximity, perhaps. A willing man; something to do on this dreadful journey, at once endlessly tedious and nail-chewingly tense. They were bored, Martin was strung as tight as a fiddle, and they both inclined to men. No more explanation needed.
Except that wasn’t true, or sufficient. Martin had spoken of things that he never spoke of, and Theo had understood. Better than that, he’d listened when he didn’t understand. That was new. That had soothed something, just a little.
He’d listened. He’d been angry, too, for Martin. Martin was used to being angry, but he was the fortunate one. He couldn’t ask people to be angry for him when there were so many others in so much worse case. He didn’t ask for pity, because he didn’t need or deserve it. Or want it, either. Pity was for children, and he was very weary of being treated as a child.
He had wondered last night, just for a moment, if Theo might be offering himself out of pity. That had not been an appealing prospect, any more than the other thoughts that whispered behind it: Because of the money. Because you’re a novelty. Because he wants to tell his friends what a man of colour’s like.
He’d been a fool to think it. Theo had wanted to fuck Martin because he liked to fuck, as simple as that. There had been no other motives, and no sentiment either. Just two people enjoying themselves and each other.
Except for those moments—seconds—when something raw had crossed Theo’s face. Martin had seen it, but the fleeting expressions had come and gone so quickly, and always been followed by a surge of movement that left his enthusiasm in no doubt. Still, their memory caught at him.
Maybe, if he bought oil for tonight, he’d find out more.
Thoughts of that kept his drifting mind occupied while the headache ebbed. They took time for more coffee at the next stage, since it was still only six in the morning. That also meant that they were able to secure four horses, fresh after a night’s rest, and made excellent time, covering the twelve miles to Retford in just fifty minutes, even if Martin felt as though his teeth had been jolted out of his head. The third stage was longer, and it was half past eight when they finally stopped at the Hare and Tortoise inn, outside Rossington.
“I need breakfast,” Theo said as they lowered themselves down the steps of the chaise. It was the first sentence he’d managed since they’d woken.
“Breakfast, more coffee,” Martin agreed, taking a look around. The air was fresh here, so far from London’s festering smells, and not yet heated and dusty. The red-brick inn seemed neat and clean, and he could smell bacon frying. Next to him, Theo gave a small whimper.
“You order,” Martin said, with a gentle push between Theo’s shoulder blades. He stumbled off to the door while Martin gave the ostlers their instructions, choosing to believe their wide-eyed expressions were because the accents up here were so thick that it was becoming a challenge to make the words out. A couple of shillings seemed to aid their comprehension, and he even got a “Yes, sir” from the brighter looking of them.
Inside the inn, Theo was doing a manful job of crawling into the coffeepot. Martin joined him at the table, poured himself a cup of what remained and, realising that conversation would be in short supply for a while yet, took out his book. He’d brought a couple, since he hadn’t known that the pace of the carriage would make reading quite impossible, or that his nights might offer other entertainment.
He’d read a few pages before he became aware that Theo was watching him with a stunned expression.
“What is it?”
“Uh . . . what are you reading?”
“Just a novel.”
“A novel,” Theo repeated.
“A novel, yes. Do you not read novels?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. Why are you reading that one?”
Martin closed the book and turned it around. It was a cheap edition, with no name or title printed on the binding. “How do you know what I’m reading?”
Theo blinked. “What are you reading?”
He was very clearly not at his best in the mornings. Martin sighed. “It’s a romance, called Melusina. There’s a young lady in peril from a villainous uncle who wants to keep her locked away until she’s old enough to be married for her money— Ah, excellent,” he added as the serving girl approached carrying two huge trenchers laden with enough sausage and bacon to fortify a small army.
The food seemed to revive Theo. He washed down his third rasher with a swig of coffee from the second pot, which Martin had thought it judicious to order, and asked, “Did you command the horses?”
“I did. We’ve four again.”
“Good. Good.” Theo concentrated on carving off a chunk of excellent sausage. “Uh, are you enjoying it? Your book?” he added, into his plate.
“Reasonably,” Martin said, giving him a baffled look. “It’s not as good as Mrs. Radcliffe, but the author spins a pretty tale. In fact, what happens is, the hero and heroine are fleeing to Scotland together with the villain in hot pursuit, and they decide to take the long route, up the east coast, attempting to throw him off their tracks. It’s what started me wondering if Troilus would head for Gretna or take the other route.”
“Yes, you said that was something you’d read.” Theo’s eyes narrowed, focusing on the bookmark, very clearly in the first chapter. “Wait, wait. You’re reading it for the second time?”
He asked that with an intensity that left Martin bewildered and slightly unnerved. “Yes, why should I not? The author repays it, I think. They aren’t great works, but they’re entertaining, and the villain is particularly amusing. And it seemed appropriate for our journey.”
“Indeed.” Theo sat back. “Maybe you could take some tips from the villain. How to catch a runaway heiress.”
“He stabs the heroine in the back before she can make her vows, rather than see her marry the hero,” Martin said. “I don’t imagine the Conroys would be pleased if I did that. In any case, we’re not the villains. We’re the heroes, riding to the rescue.”
“Us? We’re the hero’s loyal friends, at best. I’m probably the trickster servant. Or the clown.”
Martin grinned. “What does that make me?”
“The noble companion who sacrifices himself for the heroine in the third volume,” Theo said promptly. “You fling yourself in front of an assassin’s knife for her sake. Watch out for that.”
“Thank you, I shall. I should like to know why I couldn’t be the hero, though.”
“You’re insufficiently virtuous,” Theo said with a flicker of the eyelids, a tiny movement that had a wholly disproportionate effect on Martin’s prick. “And excessively burdened with individuality. If you just stood around nobly, parroting trite phrases of love, I daresay you’d do very well.”
“You have a point,” Martin was forced to admit. “I enjoy Mrs. Radcliffe greatly, but her heroes are dreadful bores. And as for this author”—he indicated his novel—“hers are astonishingly bad. You’d think she’d never met a man. I’d certainly wager she’s never been intimately acquainted with one.”
Theo choked explosively on a mouthful of sausage, and Martin forgot about the literary conversation in the hurry to thump him on the back and find him a napkin.
“Have you enquired about our quarry here?” he asked, once Theo had recovered himself.
“Not y
et. I felt coffee was more pressing. Oh, very well.” Theo pushed away his plate and went to consult the landlord. Martin set himself to finishing his food, until he was startled by a loud exclamation in a deep voice. He looked up and saw the landlord striding over, with Theo and a serving maid at his heels.
“You’re in search of a lady, for her parents, sir,” the host said. “Is that right?”
“It is,” Martin said. “Do you know something?”
“We had a pair of guests last night.” Martin had to work to make out the landlord’s meaning through his thick burr. “Lady and a gentleman. Dined in the private parlour.”
“Describe the lady,” Martin said, half rising. “Please.”
“She was veiled when I saw her. But she asked for attendance.”
“Didn’t have a maid of her own,” the girl put in. “Although she was travelling with a gentleman.” She pursed her lips.
“Did you attend her? What was she like?”
“Very young. It’s a pity and a shame,” the girl added piously. “No more than eighteen, if that. Brown hair, dark, with a lovely curl to it, and one of them noses like a pug dog.”
Miss Conroy’s retroussé nose was considered one of her most appealing features. If she’d been poor, it would just have been called snub.
“And the gentleman?” Martin asked.
“Light hair. Not yaller, more your sort of colour, sir,” the maid said, indicating Theo. “But the other was a handsome gentleman.”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” the innkeeper said firmly. “It was an elopement, then? It looked that way, I’ll admit.”
“Did she seem well?” Martin asked. “Distressed?”
“I’d say . . . if I may speak frankly? I’d say the young lady was in a towering bad temper. The gentleman was very attentive to her, but he fair bit my head off when she’d retired.”
“About that,” Theo said. “Did they take one room or two?”
Martin set his teeth, but it had to be asked, and he was grateful for it when the landlord replied. “Two, sir, and Liza had a truckle bed in with the lady. The gentleman didn’t pay for that, but it seemed to me we ought to make sure.”
